there’s always love available. our job is to find it. when we are stuck looking for where its not we won’t find it. only when we commit ourselves to finding the love that’s available, even in impossible situations, will we be able to find it.
Some trees are already bare, and the leaves that remain, may well remain until next year. When a breeze ripples the giant sequoias, they whisper to each other the lost ancient name of loss and pain
—My love, are you awake?
and the dog down the street sounds the trumpet, and the oboe in the moon soaked starless sky whirs from far to near to far
We have enough words, but have we got enough people willing to listen. To really listen. It’s easy enough to write them, easy enough to put them out there, but are we even listening. I’m trying. I’m really trying to read your words as if they were mine. When you read do you read just to consume more? I do that too. When you read are you rushing? Same. Maybe we should go back to writing on stone tablets so we can realize how precious these words really are. I’m trying, I’m really trying. How many of us read with care? Read someone else’s poem as if it was your own. Everybody’s writing, but who’s listening. If not you, who?